The Lioness, the Mage and the Lack of Wardrobe
by Nenalata
Summary: It's Mjoll's wedding night with the famous Dovahkiin, and hopefully it'll be steamy. But hopes are meant to be dashed. Dreams are meant to be shattered. Rated M for really stupid sexual themes. Did I mention this is stupid? Don't read if you're looking for hotness. This is probably the closest to sexytimes I'll ever write.


_AN: In case the warning didn't scare you away, I'm reminding you that this is an incredibly stupid, incredibly not-sexy piece of work written for a friend who didn't want me to write this. If you're still insisting on reading it, fine by me, but you should know that the story gets stupider and stupider with each word. The whole point—if there is one—is that people in Skyrim should spend a little longer courting each other, because even though that scrawny Breton mage wearing an Amulet of Mara is the Dovahkiin, he's probably a ridiculously silly character who gets one-shotted by iron arrows fired from iron bows. Here's to my friend's Breton, then, whose Magicka is 800 and Stamina is 100. Mjoll's a lucky lady._

It was a long trek all the way from Riften to Markarth, and with each step, Mjoll could feel guilt rising in her chest. Riften was far from being saved, and here she was, leaving it behind to play house. As a girl, she'd never dreamed of marrying some dashing Nord warrior with a beard half the size of his axe; never dreamed of being a housewife content to wait at home while her husband braved the harsh Skyrim winds and bandit-filled roads to bring home a loaf of bread.

Fortunately for her dreams-that-weren't, her new life as a married woman would include none of the above.

Well, she consoled herself, surely her new husband would insist she join him on his adventures, as she so often had before their engagement. Surely he would be just as enthusiastic in his efforts to revive Riften as in his devotion to his studies. The more Mjoll thought about him, the less her guilt weighed on her. She knew him, and he knew her. They understood each other's priorities.

Markarth loomed before her now, all white stone and bronze gates. They had agreed to live at his house in the city here, and he had assured her that she would find it to her liking. As she ascended the stairs that he'd told her marked the entrance to the place, she could feel her excitement growing.

She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and slowly began exploring the house. The architecture was a far cry from the weathered wooden shingles of Riften, and she found herself intrigued by how _dwarven _it all seemed. Mzinchaleft was what had brought the newlyweds together, after all.

She pushed open the last set of unexplored doors—so far, opening doors in this place had revealed an impressive alchemy and enchanting lab—and there stood her husband, resplendent in the noble poncho that marked him as Archmage of the College of Winterhold. He smiled when he saw her, his thin lips curving up around the goblet he had raised to them, and that smile sent a surprising jolt of warm realization through her.

It was their wedding night, or at least their first night together as a married couple. That smile held possibilities, possibilities that Mjoll hadn't even considered given her preoccupation with Riften.

"I'm glad you've arrived safely, my dear," he said, setting the goblet down with hands that shook slightly. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"As uneventful as one could hope," she replied. "Your home is very beautiful."

"It's our home now, Mjoll," he corrected her, another thin smile gracing his features as he rose from his seat and moved to kiss her.

If his lips were a little dry and the motion inexperienced, Mjoll pretended not to notice. It wasn't as if she were a _woman of the world_, so to speak. Instead, she took the opportunity to marvel at the fact that here she was—plain, battle-hardened Mjoll—locking lips with the Dovahkiin. Well, no one could say she'd set her sights low. If she were to decide to get married, it would figure that she would marry only a man worthy of her sword.

What did it matter, then, that her love was fairly squishy as warriors went? What did it matter that most of their adventuring was spent with her shield blocking three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around the man as he took his time charging up lethal spells? The point was, he _was _lethal, but a good man underneath. A good man who was now hers.

"Shall we move this elsewhere?" she murmured, embarrassed at how _typical_ a phrase that was. The truth was, she was a Nord and her husband was a Breton; the height difference in their kiss meant that, as cute as his arms around her neck were, it was giving her a crick.

Whatever her reasons, a blush painted his gaunt cheeks. "Of course," he said in a reedy tone, voice on the verge of cracking. He escorted her into the master bedroom. The master bedroom that seemed to lack a door.

He winked at her, a gesture that she'd always found a little odd; maybe she'd make an exception for him. Waving his scrawny arms, he summoned a sheet of ice exactly the height and width of the empty doorframe. It made the room a little chillier, but hopefully the night's activities would remedy that.

Speaking of, as soon as the makeshift door was in place, he was upon her. His tapered fingers were from the hands of a scholar, not a thief—something she'd always appreciated until now, as he struggled with the clasps on her armor. Mjoll smiled patiently and undid the metal straps and fixtures. There really was no sexy way to let plate armor fall with a clank from her shoulders to the ground, but if he wanted Mjoll the Lioness, Mjoll the Lioness was what he was going to get.

Going by the glazed-over look in his eyes, he certainly didn't mind. Now that she thought about it, he'd probably never seen her in anything but that armor, and here she was, standing before him, six feet of muscled Nord _woman_.

He was clearly trying to say something suave, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a small, excited squeak. Mjoll pretended not to hear it.

"Your turn," she smiled, stepping closer. She grasped the fringe of his poncho, and—

"Mjoll," her husband moaned quite suddenly, eyes rolling back. Startled, Mjoll released him, and he collapsed onto the bed, groaning loudly. She could see a small wet spot beginning to blossom on the revealed crotch of his trousers.

His moans grew in pitch and frequency, and Mjoll stretched out next to him, panic flooding through her veins as she looked him up and down. Had she done something wrong? Was he injured?

A small snore broke her out of her frenzied concern. As she glanced at his face, she saw his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. Asleep.

Before Mjoll could have a chance to be properly infuriated at how—now that she was being honest—_pathetic_ her husband was, without warning, the aforementioned emaciated Breton rolled over in his sleep onto her prone form. With the poncho, he was probably twice his weight, and Mjoll couldn't muster the energy to move him. A thin sliver of drool flowed from between his thin lips onto her collarbone, and she was aware that this was likely the wettest she was going to get tonight.

A horrendous crash echoed through the room. The Dovahkiin snorted and stirred slightly while Mjoll nearly jumped out of her skin. Splinters of ice littered the stone floor, and in the ruins of the ice door stood Aerin, flexing and shaking out his fist.

"Mjoll really hates it here," he sighed, still stretching his hand. He was probably going to say something else, but unfortunately for him, he took that moment to glance up and take in the scene. "Oh!" he squealed, an unhealthy shade of purple crawling up his neck as his eyes darted everywhere that wasn't Mjoll's scantily clad figure or her husband's rumpled clothing. "Sorry to interrupt! I'll show myself out!"

As the man fled with naught but the sound of bronze doors slamming behind him, Mjoll's husband rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and fixed her with a sleepy grin.

"Was it good for you?" he asked. Mjoll flopped back on the bed and rolled as far away from him as possible, wondering if maybe Riften wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
